


Hour of Wolves

by notthatholyghost



Series: Age of Gods [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Civil War, Consequences, Examining Politics in Skyrim, Fantastic Racism, Gen, It Gets Worse, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Major Original Character(s), Mistakes, Noble Fugitive, Not Beta Read, Xenophobia, elitism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 00:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18457553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthatholyghost/pseuds/notthatholyghost
Summary: To put it lightly, Lyra is up to her pointy Breton ears in it.After seven years of travelling Tamriel avoiding her infamous past and responsibilities, Lyra finds herself doggedly haunted by it in the shape of a man she’d thought long since departed through the streets of Solitude, her latest port in the storm of her life. Running once again across land and rivers, she finds herself aboard wagon going as far away as she can get; only to put herself in the wrong place at the utterly wrong time mistaken for a Stormcloak supporter during an Imperial ambush at Darkwater Crossing.She has no hope of a rescue. But that doesn’t seem to be what the Divines have in store for her, anyway.





	Hour of Wolves

           She swayed with the wind, watching the golden leaves dance through the air like small wisps of flame and was just as mesmerised by the sight as if it were embers swirling and twirling through the air. Beneath her, the bench was dotted with the fallen vestiges of autumn, though the carriage driver had assured her on multiple accounts that autumn was nowhere near being done with this part of Skyrim.

She laughed at the Nord’s seriousness, “All seasons come and go, dear sir!”

           “Aye, that they do.” He’d laughed along with her before a tone of gravity coloured his voice and brought him to face her with piercing blue eyes in a lined face weathered by years of the cold and hard work. “But here in Skyrim, we have them last a bit longer. Winter is long and hard this far North. Kyne blesses us with a long harvest season so that we might survive the winds of winter.”

           It had a touch of superstition to it, the undercurrents of which she had encountered in a variety of people she met during her travels. But the Nords, they had an eerie way of it - for all their battle-readiness and blunt words - the Old Ways rang true here: gods were not benevolent without payment, and death was the price to be paid for life. The long night would be broken with mild day only to fall into darkness again, a cycle that went so on and so forth from era to era.

She couldn’t say much to that, no matter what her reputation as Breton might have had him thinking. A more well-read Breton could have offered a humorous repartee, some antidote that made his superstitions seem frivolous. But she wasn’t just some ladder climbing commoner from Highrock where social graces and duty dictated how you interacted with the world.

No, where she was from had its own fair share of superstitions, and Kyne’s grace, nay her wrath, was not exactly unknown to her. But neither did she want to encourage a conversation with her acquiescence, the distance between her beliefs and where she came from... too significant for someone who had at least the bare minimum of Bretony knowledge.

“And cold they are,” she acknowledged, looking down at her hands and then back up to the woodland surrounding them. She had only experienced the winter previous in Solitude where precious commodities were easily come by, and warmth was just a tavern away. A strong city where they didn’t have to worry for a short or lacking harvest because goods came day by day on ships, instead of the fields.

Suddenly her reluctance to speak further felt less like avoidance for fear of her past and more to avoid showing just how privileged she was, even on the run. She swallowed thickly, checking to see if the driver was still paying her any attention through her eyelashes, but he had already gone back to minding the horse, and so she went back to watching the trees and dancing leaves.

After that short conversation they had fallen into an amicable silence for a few hours, broken only by small observations of the natural world, and on occasion, the tumultuous sound of bears bellowing in the distance.

Such a bellow woke her from a little reverie, and the dancing leaves came into focus once again. Her mind supplied another bit of local custom, a trivial notion that was common sense, but it fit the scene before her, so she whispered it to the carriers of next year’s saplings:

“The winter winds bring with them the seeds of spring,” She lifted her hand into the light breeze, opening and closing her fingers in a quick dance of her own.

A leaf shortly caught itself betwixt them, such as the abundance of the falling leaves it seemed to just slide its way between the tips of her gloves. The warm hue brought a memory of swaying barley in the summer back to her as she slowly twisted the stem, spinning the red-gold leaf until she lost her grip and it was carried away in the breeze.

She smiled with delight watching the path it wove for a moment and then turned for her pack. “How much longer until we reach Shor’s Stone, sir?”

For a moment, it seemed like her voice had not carried her question to his ears, watching him lift a free hand to scratch at his beard. She pulled out a winterberry tonic from her rucksack in the meantime, the fermented beverage warming her against the slight cold with its alchemical properties.

           “Not a half day, lass.” He looked back at her, a shrewd look in his eyes. “Mind me asking what it is you’re hoping to find there? Not much other than miners and poor sods without a Septim to their names,”

           She wanted to laugh at the last bit, and some of that must have shown on her face because the driver chortled, shrewdness fading away in his laughter.

“I suppose I don’t mind, very much. It’s just another place for me to explore really, I’ve always had a bit too much curiosity in me,” she laughed, remembering the time she’d wandered into a spriggan’s glade only to escape by the tip of her nose, “And I wondered at the place’s name. No one up in Solitude seemed to know why it’s called such, I even checked the archives,” She shrugged, breezily talking through the slight tense feeling that began to creep in the pit of her being.

“I thought the locals might be a bit more knowledgeable.”

           “Maybe that they do know,” He’d gone to watching the road again as he spoke, careful hands directing the dun gelding along the winding curves of the road. Further ahead, the road straightened out to reveal a sparse amount of tall pines in the distance and a river roaring next to them sending small droplets into the wind that twinkled in the late afternoon light. “Can’t say that I remember the story m’self.” He murmured, a slight cough capping his words.

She nodded even though he couldn’t see it, and watched the distant view come closer with every minute that passed in the quiet.

This part of Skyrim, she could grow to like. The volcanic pools with thick spruce and aspens colouring the valleys and mountains. It almost could rival the near dreamlike quality of her memories of home. She set herself to watching the world go by, fingers playing with the now-closed bottle as her mind drifted. Her memories of late had become dulled from not just time away but the steadfast refusal to think of the fields and hills she had played in as a child, even the colour of the skies during the harshest of storms had become silver-toned. Unlike this pure azure that seemed to stretch like pulled canvas from mountain peak to peak. More unreal and fantastic than her own dimming memories. As she stared, a strangely shaped wisp floated higher as it dispersed into thin streaks and she cast her gaze about to find the source.

She didn't have to look long before she was picking out several small streaks of smoke rising into the sky, pale grey against the cloudless blue. She counted five distinct streams and one darker billowing stream set further apart than the rest.

 _A settlement of some sort, then._ She turned and dug through her rucksack, pulling out the only map she had nearly knocking out quills and a near empty ink well. The map was half useless with all her marks and single word questions written over the vast majority of it, but she couldn't bring herself to part with the parchment. Thankfully her need to document odd-things and rumours hadn’t spread into this portion of the country’s depiction, and she quickly began tracking their progress.

 _A half-day away, so we should be coming upon... Ah! Darkwater Crossing._ Her fingers traced the river’s path, lining up with the landmarks they’d already passed on their journey this day and the one previous, briefly pausing over a symbol of two towers she'd hastily scribed alongside "Danger!". The Valtheim Towers had been a harrowing experience, seeing the bandits look down on them but gratefully not pressing their advantage as they passed underneath. Even though she knew enough destruction spells to get herself out of a strait, she didn’t want to find out how well she fared against an entire near-battalion of rogues.

The driver had attributed their uncharacteristic tolerance to the lack of easily seen valuables, and she had been, perhaps not glad but, somewhat thankful for the first time since leaving Solitude abruptly that she hadn’t been able to bring more with her.

Her finger drew themselves back to the northwest port city, and she wondered cautiously if her things would be kept or sold to the next occupant of her rented rooms. The woman she had paid rent to didn’t strike her as the sort to callously toss such things out, but given little warning of her departure, she couldn’t blame the older woman for finding payment in the sale.

A tremor wracked her when she thought they may have landed in the hands of the reason for her leaving. Of what use they could be to someone inclined to magick and a desire to find her.

 _I can’t think like that. He barely saw me, so who knows if he’ll even find out where I was staying. It’s a big city._  She attempted to work off the shiver, rolling her shoulders away from her ears and tried to ignore the tightening of her stomach that only got worse with the movements of the carriage.  _Anyways, there isn't much I can do about it now._

Suddenly a nagging feeling of being watched had her snapping her head upwards, and she immediately looked to the driver, but his gaze was facing ahead.

She looked about them uneasily then, the trees that she had admired for their brilliant foliage hid even bears from view. The odds that she would see a person from behind them were slim, but still, she peered intently.

Nothing caught her eye except for a raven that eyed their movements from a high up bare branch, but the lack of seeing anything else helped not at all in shaking the foreboding feeling from her bones.

It was just like the vague warning she felt before she knew she had been spotted in the market of Solitude. An instinct that had screamed for her to find the danger and eliminate it. Her rapid flight hadn’t drowned the feelings, and with the odd hair-raising sense of concealed watchful eyes, it came roaring back.

Instincts primed, she found herself cataloguing each moment. Every knock of the horse’s hooves on the dirt road versus the click of stone meeting hoof suddenly had worth to remember, and each yard that was surpassed in movement became another mile she wanted to run back.

All too soon the settlement came into clearer view as though to mock that feeling, details blooming into focus to reveal buildings and a smelter from which the dark smoke rose. A sharp colour contrasts with the darker atmosphere there, flashes of blue weave in-between the dreary greys and browns that make up the settlement. 

She imagines the unseen watchers holding their breath, waiting in anticipation.

The carriage moves closer, and she can now pick out the figures going about their daily tasks throughout the small settlement. Flashes of blue become cobalt sashes draped and lashed around quilted armour on tall, forbidding Nords.

The driver continues urging the gelding forwards, and they enter the settlement proper.

A man, taller and with an air of importance about him, stands out by the breadth of space he is given by those surrounding him, though they are not what she would call in a crowd. Their stances are familiar to her, a semblance of being at ease that only guards can express while evaluating each possible threat. And he, confident in the centre of that vigilance, turns to them as the sound of their arrival meets his ears.

As he peers at them, she is surprised to make out the cold metal glint of his eyes. The sharp look sparks insecurity, and for all her will to look away, to act as if she had been merely looking the place over, she cannot draw her gaze elsewhere.

She fancies that she can hear the watchers gather their breath and ready themselves.

For a short moment, she can drag her gaze away to stare hard at the back of the driver’s head, willing him to keep going. _Don't stop, don't stop. Something is wrong here, I know it. Keep going!_ She thinks and works her mouth with the words to tell him so, but the moments slip by unspoken as her tongue turns to lead and her lips to glue. Frustration leaps and she finds herself drawn back to the sight.

The Nord, for he is indeed that, is dressed in deepening greys with embroidery that speaks not of delicacy but of fierce war motifs. Dark blonde hair seems to absorb the sunlight instead of reflecting it casting further shadows on an already heavy brow. The carriage is close enough now that her attention on him has drawn his to her, and it is not unlike the feeling of approaching a slavering wolf. There is pressure in the air about him, a power she cannot name, but the scent-taste is familiar, confusingly so because she is absolutely sure they've never met before. He frowns openly at her in return, and a man an arm's length behind him, shorter and less thick but no less forbidding at this distance dressed in the same armour as the rest, draws closer as the first Nord speaks words she cannot make out.

           “Whoa, whoa,” The driver calls and the carriage rolls to a stop.

           The tight feeling in her guts transforms into a blindsiding punch that steals her breath, and she's terribly certain that she's made some sort of noise in protest when the guards closest to them look at her oddly.

She tears her eyes away from the darkly dressed Nord to her driver. Swallows. Shakes her head minutely to clear away whatever fog has her in its grip. Finally, words come to her lips.

“Why have we stopped?”

           “Need to hand off a letter.” He replies, his tense voice wearing away at the nonchalance he attempts to put to the words. “No worries, lass.”

The driver waves his hand welcomingly at the shorter Nord with the cobalt blue sash.

There is a nod of acquiescence from the darkly dressed to the armoured, and then the shorter of the two approaches with a relaxed gait that speaks of familiarity between her driver and this guard.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the glinting eyes watching her now, calculating through the confusion of her out-of-place keen attention.

           “It’ll be right quick, and we shall be on our way.”

She barely has any reaction to his words other than a small nod, given all her attention seems dedicated to the task of observing the glowering man and the younger Nord who now approaches them. Gone are any reminders of her upbringing, courtesy damned in favour of the perilous way she has found herself riveted to the man.

Her view is blocked, as short as she is the height of the carriage doesn't give her the distance to see over the younger Nord as he approaches directly in her line of sight. Grateful to have diverged, she looks him over quickly. He has an open look on his face, and in any other circumstances, she would have said it was friendly. A face that could make anyone feel at ease, even when he looks at her questioningly just as he reaches them. But he spares no words to her other than the singular look before a quiet conversation takes place between him and her driver. All she can make out from the whispered words is a brief, _"Were you followed?"_ that sends her heart into a rapid rhythm.

She scoots further into the wood at her back while her hands reach over to her rucksack, lifting the edge of the bag to glance down at an ivory hilt, the short blade hidden beneath the length of her pack. Sentimentality had urged her to bring it with, but now she thought it of more practical uses for it. The urge to flee begins to transform into the promise of violence, just as it had at Valtheim Towers when the bandits stared down at her. A flickering flame is in her veins ready to burn into an inferno, and she can't help but rub her fingertips together letting static build there.

           The driver leans over suddenly pulling a parcel from beside him and handing it over. “There you go, Ralof,” he says, seeming to end their conversation as Ralof turns away, the parcel tucked against his side.

           She stares harder at them all, thinking while panic dances underneath her skin in hot lodes racing from her heart to her hands where magick pricks alongside her fingers unspent. Her eyes strayed again to the tall Nord to find his eyes thunderous. She starts, and immediately she knows. Her body language screams to those who know how to read it, of her suspicion and her distrust.

He knows how to read it, she can see it in the way his mouth tightens and eyes, still thunderous, narrow at her with his own suspicions now running rampant. Years of warfare teach even the youngest how, but this is no squire or mere officer.

_I know who this is._

She remembers the city in blissful ignorance. A man riding a white horse down the cobblestone streets, no blood to be seen on equally dark clothing- but nevertheless there.

A horn blowing in a series of blasts as the city is made aware of the tragedy that has occurred.

Her stepping out on to the balcony, wondering what all the fuss was.

Guards swarming the streets, Imperial soldiers flooding down from Castle Dour. All too late, too far behind the white horse and its dark rider.

Cries of “Kingslayer!” following like a crashing wave.

A gate left open. A traitor, a loyalist, an abettor letting the kingslayer ride out unmolested.

The execution a day later, that by Imperial law, should have been for the man in front of her.

_Ulfric Stormcloak!_

The watchers release their breath.

His head tilts, eyes holding hers as he steps forwards raising a hand towards her.

She remembers the name of the pressure, the power unreleased in the air. The taste-scent of lightning and petrichor heady as it is threatening.

A horn cries into the late afternoon, a forbidding call to arms.

The storm breaks.

**Author's Note:**

> First, let me begin by saying hello and thank you for reading! Secondly, I know a portion of you may be a little confused with the lack of any names/pronouns being mentioned- this is on purpose and will hopefully make sense as I continue to post chapters and have you see a bit more into the mind of this secretive little lass (after all, we rarely refer to ourselves by name in thoughts, do we?). I'd ask that you pay attention to the tags because I intend on delving deep from the start into the quite obvious racial tensions and political situations in Skyrim and how I think people living in that atmosphere would react from the multitude of sides- if that isn't your cup of tea, carry on to another story this is the only chapter where it will be sparingly implied.
> 
> All Original Characters belong to the author, if you wish to use them in inspired works pm the author first for permission. The whole of Elder Scrolls 'verse belongs to Bethesda. All ideas examined and written in this work belongs to the author.


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